And Yet, I Feel Fine - 2013 - oil on burlap The art of Kiley Ames works against the grain, with burlap as her surface, she has chosen a medium that works against her because, as she puts it, "even though it is really rough and unforgiving you can still use it to create a variety of really unique and beautiful things. That's how I see people and that's how I see society." A unique and soulfully poetic psychology infuses Kiley's work, the difficulty of the medium stands as metaphor for the challenging surfaces and all too often interiors of people and of our world. The world beyond the familiar is also one that Kiley is deeply fascinated by, with every trip abroad, she says, "I start a different form of art, it just contributes to how I think about art, how I think about people and the relationship that we have with different cultures. Sometimes I find more commonality with different cultures than I do in this country." In China, Ames picked up her appreciation for negative space, which shows up in much of her work, and could also be seen as an offering to the viewer's own potential for dreaming up possibilities, both in what they see and what they don't, perhaps layering in their own miniature visions like an unspoken collaboration. Kiley's work is by no means an art of isolation, but rather one of connection and world responsiveness. What is the fabric that holds us together, do the ties that bind also sometimes discomfort us, how do we work against ourselves, each other, the world, otherness, what we see, what we don't? I spoke with Kiley recently about her work, her medium, the ways in which technology has transformed and compromised our ability to remember deeply our histories, the loss of art programs in public schools, what artists can do to remedy it, and ultimately the world at large, because more than anything, the art of Kiley Ames stands as testament to the fact that there is always much more than meets the eye, that what we know, can at any moment, be totally transformed by what we don't. James Diaz: What are your ideas behind working with material that works against you, such as burlap, why that material and how did it first come to you to use burlap as a canvas? Kiley Ames: When I had gone to graduate school I was painting on panel with brushes and I loved it. It was a really comfortable surface for me to work on, and even though I was getting really positive feedback when I was graduating I was really unhappy, not so much with the images that I was creating, but the disconnect between the content I was trying to create and how that was not being articulated in the actual image I was creating. I had just received a residency to go and study in China for a few months and I had an instructor who I could communicate really well with and he said "you need to choose a surface that works against you." Basically go opposite with everything I was using up until that point. So instead of painting on panel choose a surface that was really rough and really unforgiving, and that had different context to it, the actual burlap itself, and then I picked up a palette knife instead of a brush. Working with burlap still till this day is really challenging. I love how the burlap contradicts the imagery I create, because it's really rough, and multi-purposeful, it's recyclable, people throw it out, it can be also fabric that is used in these really beautiful creations, and even though it is really rough and unforgiving you can still use it to create a variety of really unique and beautiful things. That's how I see people and that's how I see society. Even after several years of working with burlap it has never become a comfortable surface for me. And I feel as if life has never been a comfortable existence for me. JD: I was thinking along those terms as well, how it might relate to how we see other people, the burlap working against you as opposed to the canvas, which is a little more passive and easy to deal with but the burlap forces you to grapple with something. KA: I think the wood panel had become a passive surface, which really works for some people and had been successful, in a way, for me, but that's not what I was looking for because that's really not what defines me and how I view people. JD: The titles of some of your works, Atonal Melodies, In the Labyrinth, I think of these in terms of people too, people being labyrinths, being melodies that are slightly off or aren't always on key, the discrepancy between who they are and how we perceive them, is that intentional at all behind the titles of your series? KA: Absolutely. The titles have become a huge part of the whole piece which definitely was not how it used to be. I'm hugely influenced by literature and so many of the titles come from different books I've read over the years, different words that I am always drawn to that recombine to create a title. It always comes at the end of the process and so in many ways it becomes the final part of the piece that I feel complete with. JD: Who are some of the authors that have inspired you and crossed over into your work? KA: It's such a huge range. I would say Virginia Wolfe. I was a history major so authors like James McPherson who wrote books about the civil war, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Tolstoy, Greek Mythology, which was also one of my favorite things to study, The Odyssey, it really crosses such huge fields, Edgar Allen Poe, Walt Whitman. Duality - 2017 - oil on canvas J.D. The study of literature and history came before you entered art? KA: Yes. I was a history and English literature minor at UCLA. Then went into Italian and started to study art history. It really wasn't until my mid-late twenties that I ended up taking a figurative oil painting class and that set me back to school again to get a degree in studio art. JD: Having studied abroad and having lived in a few other countries, how has that impacted or translated into your work, in terms of observing other cultures and languages and the different ways communities are around each other, has that made an impact on your own work. KA: Absolutely, I think that helps define my work. Which is why I go on as many residencies as I can. When I first went to China on the residency which resulted in me changing the surface of my technique, we also were really fortunate to have another student who acted as a translator and we spoke with a lot of Chinese artists and they talked about the history of how Chinese painting developed, which is so completely different from the way western art developed. A lot of the composition that I use now in my work, where there is a lot more relationship between the negative space and the texture of the burlap versus the painted areas, that was really due to my exposure to Eastern art, and how the canvas or the empty spaces were considered just as much if not more relevant to that whole image. When I was in Beijing we were put in the middle of the city and it was a fend for yourself situation, it was incredibly alienating. There were four of us and nobody spoke the language, we weren't in a tourist section, we didn't know how to order food, we didn't have access to social media, I think I got maybe a half hour of Skype with my family outside of a McDonald's, so it was really alienating. It was an incredible experience which totally changed the trajectory of my artwork but at the same time it was a very contradictory experience. This Beautiful Sound - 2017 - oil on linen JD: And hard to ground yourself in such an uncertain environment. KA: Definitely. And then later studying in Germany, with all of the cultural difference that entailed, I first began doing sculptures. Every different place that I go to I start a different form of art, it just contributes to how I think about art, how I think about people and the relationship that we have with different cultures. Sometimes I find more commonality with different cultures than I do in this country. I wish more people had that experience and didn't feel so committed to their own culture that it dis-inhibits them from allowing other cultures to have an influence and impact on them. JD: I wonder if any of that in this country could be attributed to speed and how fast our society is, how technology has changed, our attention span is shrinking and our appreciation of things is so miniaturized. I'm sure this is affecting other cultures as well but maybe it's not affecting them as fast or in the same way or maybe there are parts of their society that have managed to hold onto older forms, mythology and ancestral story telling and generational culture that is preserved in ways that it isn't here except maybe in Native American communities and the like. KA: I completely agree. I think that the U.S. is such a young culture, it has a young history to it and while there are obviously these really significant cultural shifts that have happened in the U.S. I think so many other cultures have a much more significant depth of history that they can go back to. This country does tend to speed things up so quickly, contradictorily though I kind of feel like we're going backward at the same time, which I think has thrown a lot of people off, myself included. JD: Politically or artistically? KA: I think socially we have gone back and maybe that's reflected in the current political climate. Progress moves in waves, you have huge jumps forward and then it plateaus, and apparently goes backward before it goes forward again. I'm more conscious of it in this country because that's where I live but I'm sure that also happens in other countries as well. JD: Do you attribute that to a loss of solidarity that people have with each other, how communities are in flux and rarely stable anymore? KA: In this country? JD: In any country but in this country too, to some degree. KA: I definitely think that we have sped up our attention to history. History books I used to read in school, or the emphasis that was placed on literature and science, I felt as if it was kind of abbreviated back then, but I feel now, especially with the way technology has progressed, that there's an even shorter attention span for history, and I'm of the belief that if you don't understand your history you don't know how to move forward. You either get stuck in the present or you get stuck with what you were taught in the past, and to me societies can't evolve unless you know what your past is. And what other people's histories are. Great Ladies at Work and Play #2 - 2012 - wire, paper clay, burlap, oil paint Sky with No Ceiling - 2017 - oil on linen JD: From a young age people are learning history not in a deep way but on the surface, and tests become increasingly geared toward memorization as opposed to really absorbing the information. KA: I think that's true. I don't think that's always intentional, depending on where you're raised, how you're raised, what your access is to certain things, those are factors that we definitely don't always choose. That plays into economics, that plays into demographics, where the emphasis of value is placed. I think in general there is a lack of emphasis on education and on learning what your past is and the complexities of that past. JD: Technology too is geared towards taking young people's attention away from the permanent and putting it onto the fleeting. I didn't grow up with that kind of technology in school, so maybe there was less competing for my attention, although there was still stuff competing for my attention other than school. But today it seems it would be even harder to instill a deep appreciation, whether in middle school, high school or even earlier in kids with that kind of bombardment of over-sensory stimulation towards really fleeting and artificial, temporary things. KA: I agree. If that's what's encouraged and there's only so much influence individuals can have over such large societal problems as that because they're encouraged on such a large scale, and I don't think it's going to work to societies benefit. I find technology fascinating, don't get me wrong. JD: I do too. There's a tendency to either denigrate it or over romanticize it and not many of us live in the in between of appreciating the benefits and the downside. KA: I feel as if it hurts the communication that people have with one another. I think communication can often be abbreviated now, whereas before you had two options, you could talk in person or you could talk on the phone. Or you could write letters. A lot of people are losing their communication skills which is how you often learn from one another. JD: Letter writing is a great example, it forces you to think about what you really want to say when you have a pen and paper and you're writing somebody. I know that when I've written letters personally it's always been an in depth process. Emails and instant messaging takes all that away, not that we don't still agonize over what we're going to type but it feels different. KA: I still write letters to friends over seas because you have to think more about what you're going to say and you can't really hit the delete button and I like that. Study for Appreciate the Other - 2014 - wire, air dry clay, oil paint The Light that Leads - 2013 - oil on burlap JD: Talking about education, so many art programs are being cut in school, what do you think the impact of that is for youth, not that every young person is going to become an artist but that they have that appreciation for art or art history removed from their curriculum, what affect does that have on young people and on our society, what can artists and even people who aren't artists do to turn that trend around? KA: I think it's absolutely horrible that the first thing they end up cutting are arts programs because I might not have taken all these studio art classes or majored in art but we always learned about it and there was always the option to take it. I Think in high school I took a jewelry making class, and you were still exposed to creativity, and I feel as if so many people, myself included, can relate to humanity or these range of emotions with various methods, some people relate to music better or some people relate to visual art or literature and if you cut out these visual art programs you're cutting out this huge section of kids and even young adults where that's their outlet and how they understand themselves and their relationship to society and to other people. And it limits your knowledge base, and your communication base. I think of what my life would be like now if I didn't have my art and I would find it so isolating. I think as artists or in any creative field, but especially in the arts because most people can turn on a radio, if students are not provided with that art then I think artists need to bring that into the community. That could be through grants provided for community or mural projects, or after school classes, where kids or young adults can go to these programs at minimal cost or free of charge because they're funded and get that experience. I think it needs to get there somehow. If you look back at civilization, images figure immensely in the social fabric. I can't think of a culture that didn't use visual art as communication. JD: When that gets stifled expression has nowhere to go. And then violence emerges. As a young person I had an appreciation for writing and I had teachers that encouraged and even instilled that, and the more that that is lost, whatever a person is dealing with in their own personal life just becomes magnified and has nowhere to go. And so if there's no appreciation for the visual, no appreciation for literature and that's lost, it's pretty scary to think of what we'd become or who we'd become. KA: I agree. I think a lot of artists feel that way. You get caught in the fact that you want to create and have time to devote to your own art, at the same time you want to make sure that other people can experience your art and be involved in that relationship and experience. And if you take that away, the lesser you're able to express yourself and the more you become internalized without having that outlet, I think people and society just implode. JD: How do you view the gallery space, do you think galleries could become more democratized and accessible than they are now? Does that play into artists setting up these programs like you were talking about, in communities, making up for maybe some of the structural barriers to people experiencing and seeing art? KA: I think the gallery system has changed so dramatically from what it was in the 70's and 80's. Its continued to become much more narrow and especially now looking at New York or even San Francisco so many galleries have closed, especially the galleries that once gave those chances to artists and really showed a variety of artists, they lost their space because of not being able to afford it and not selling as much artwork. There's a huge discrepancy now between art work that goes for hundreds of thousands and millions of dollars and then other artists who don't even sell work or it's for such a lower price and galleries can't sustain themselves. So I think now people are starting to have a reaction to that so they're doing a lot more pop up exhibits. I think artists are also trying to find ways to be more creative with getting their art work out there and making it more a part of society. That's one reason why I love the current exhibit I'm in, because it's not in an enclosed gallery space, it's outward, anybody can walk by and see it. I really do think more artists and people who are supportive of the arts are trying to do that. But it's definitely more challenging. We Bake Cakes and Nothing's the Matter - 2011 - oil on linen on panel Untitled - 2012 - oil on burlap on panel
JD: Do you have any words of advice or encouragement for other artists or young creatives who are struggling through the process, experiencing self doubt, stuck creatively, writers block, painters block, what kinds of things have people told you in the past or that you've told yourself that you would offer to other people? KA: I think the biggest thing for me when I have felt stuck with my paintings is to look to other creative outlets. I am hugely influenced by dance. For me, I feel as if having those different outlets, it always adds to my artwork and helps me to be creative even if I'm not the one creating the work. It gives your mind a different way to take in all this creative information. It's such a great learning ground. I read a lot, I watch a lot of dance or film, and music. I listen to a lot of classical music because there isn't a focus on the words, it's really just that emotional content. I think that's a huge thing to do, for young people, if they're struggling. And to reach out to other artists. Maybe you don't feel comfortable reaching out to students in your class but there's an artist you really love, send them an email, the worst thing that's going to happen is they're not going to email you back. But you might develop a really good mentor, even if it's online. If you're fortunate enough to get into higher education, and even if you're not, find your community of artists, even if their work is nothing like yours. For me, if I have an absolutely horrible teaching day or studio day, If I can go see a friend of mine in a creative industry it just helps me feel not as isolated. I think there's this idea of "oh, that's so great you're going to the studio, have fun," it's not really an adjective I'd use to describe my studio practice, and I don't mean that in a bad way, that's just really not the adjective I'd use. And I have so many non creative non art friends and then I can just talk about anything and get my mind off art. JD: A conversation can change so much. KA: Absolutely. Just putting in the effort to do those things, I think artists can get so tunnel focused and in the process get really isolated. I think trying to reach out of your environment is really, really important. JD: Do you have any new exhibits or upcoming projects you'd like to tell people about? KA: I have one up currently at NYU until September 6th. I have a solo exhibit in South Africa, in March. And then I have my first museum exhibit at the American University museum in Washington D.C. in June. All images © Kiley Ames (provided courtesy of the artist) For more visit www.kileyames.com/ 8/25/2017 Poetry by Justin KarcherAnd When the War Is Done, Our Nails Will Look So Pretty Saturday morning And Carly’s getting her nails done And I’m plunked on a chair And everything feels so unreal In a dream, I’m getting a pedicure somewhere Dangling my feet off the edge But they’re not my feet They’re bigger than that As big as skyscrapers heavy with heredity They’ve been weighing me down for years They’re the feet of my father My grandfather All those callouses from centuries of running away Blue-collar toenails as sharp as swords still stuck in stones The only thing our feet have been good for Is kicking up the dust and trying to move on In this dream, the sun is shining on an army of faceless pedicurists And I know they’re making fun of me in a language I don’t quite understand A language that my forefathers tried to stomp into submission I plead with them to just cut off my thousands of feet “Be done with them,” I scream But the pedicurists just shake their heads and make my feets better In this dream, I’m sitting atop a mountain of work boots and birth control bayonets And thinking that I should roll off the edge like a flame-less cannonball That maybe I’ll find my fuse again if I just give in to change But my feet They’ve always been holding me back My father’s feet My grandfather’s feet I dream a lot But I never dream about water And that has always made me sad Because water means life and freedom And it also seems beautiful to dream of floating in a body of water Because the important word there is ‘body’ Because it means you can open yourself up to any body It means you have no problem swimming toward unfamiliar arms In this dream, there are fungus vultures circling around my feet And waiting for me to cut them off with a rusty buzz saw Waiting for me to run footless toward a sun that’s in love with our shadows Shadows of our fathers Shadows of our grandfathers In this dream, I hold hands with a faceless pedicurist And she teaches me how to walk again When Carly texts me that she’s done I’m having a cigarette outside in the parking lot It’s time to get a move on, because there are still many things left to do As we drive away in our Chevy Cruze I hear screams coming from inside the nail salon Manicurists and pedicurists are stabbing suburban imperialists to death Nail files are weapons of mass destruction Manicurists and pedicurists are laughing and painting their nails With the blood of housewives It’s a massacre As we drive down Sheridan Drive I tell Carly we’re going to Starbucks Because I’m really in the mood for a Grande Mocha Frappuccino That I used to drink them all the time back in college Carly smiles and nods her head I miss those days and I don’t know why ![]() Bio: Justin Karcher is the author of Tailgating at the Gates of Hell from Ghost City Press, http://ghostcitypress.tumblr.com/gcp003, the chapbook When Severed Ears Sing You Songs from CWP Collective Press, https://www.cwp-press.com/#/when-severed-ears-sing-you-songs/ and the micro-chapbook Just Because You've Been Hospitalized for Depression Doesn't Mean You're Kanye West from Ghost City Press, https://gumroad.com/l/karcher2017, as part of their 2017 summer micro-chapbook series. His recent work has appeared in Foundlings, Cease,Cows, Thought Catalog, varsity goth, Occulum and more. He is the Editor-in-Chief of Ghost City Review. His one act play When Blizzard Babies Turn to Stone premiered in February at Alleyway Theatre in Buffalo, NY. He tweets @Justin_Karcher. 8/24/2017 Poetry by dance mckobball but fungal remains i have nightmares soiled structures and scream things mushrooms crushed under moonlight mysteries and sharp teeth treaties that pave way towards a pallid prelude one where i am shaking tongue crying at war with a wake-up call and thrown into a reality dreamt up from a red wine dynasty in which my ankles render me immobile where i know deep down to put the pastry in the back of my head in a hiding place where my fingers would snap if in close proximity or cast the soda into this proverbial shipwreck without a captain to care kraken coils choking the little life i had left there were crumbs created in my character bits of bread designed in my name carbs becoming the product of god and this cushioned vessel cradles my ass better than any man could appreciate outside is a mostly unknown episode one i'm rarely seen on if there wasn't any pain there'd be acknowledgement and i'm not sure which is worse but i'm a better man now just because and nothing more ![]() Bio: dance mckobb is an existential crisis corps an endless idea don't think about it too much lest we recruit you
Voices
From Cat Del Buono's intimate video installation Voices, one hears 20 monitors playing at once the individual stories of domestic abuse survivors, a cacophony of unrecognizable words meant to act as metaphor for the abstract nature of statistics, only when one approaches an individual monitor can one hear the singular, unique story of what one woman went through and how she got out of her situation. As a society we must fight against allowing this to become a blur of background noise, of mere statistics, something happening to someone else, not your Mother, Sister, Aunt, Cousin, but it could be, and even if it isn't, as a society we must take note and begin to listen to these individual stories, to bring this violence out of the shadows. Cat has recently curated a permanent exhibit for Art Connects of artworks and murals in a domestic violence shelter in the Bronx. Del Buono's work also heavily engages with humor "which allows people to be more receptive," Cat says, "since the message is hidden behind the humor. The laughing keeps them from shutting out the harsh criticism or message." Films such as How Not To Get Raped and Now I'm Beautiful! serve satirical purpose around the absurdities of bodily enhancement, plastic surgery and the obsession with artificial standards and notions of beauty and appearance, as in the latter, while also dealing satirically with harsh and dire experiences, in the former, tackling the absurd blame the victim mantras our society recklessly trots out, and producing, by way of humor, a profound disturbance in the undertone of our unconscious attitudes, and hopefully resulting in a realization of such backwards thinking over rape and crimes against women. AHC talked with Cat about her art and films and about the driving forces behind her creative body of work: "I wish I had stopped fighting myself sooner," Del Buono says, "and just embraced who I was - an artist." AHC: What has your own personal evolution towards a life in art been like, are there a series of moments you can recall where this path, this calling, began to become the one clearly marked for you? Cat: I was always drawing as a kid and considered myself an artist back then. At the age of 11, I began making films - on Super 8 film - so I then considered myself a filmmaker. But when I went to college, I had this idea that you couldn't be an artist or filmmaker "in real life" - you had to have a "real" job. However, I found myself fighting this most of my young adult life. I was unable to stop myself from majoring in studio art, taking photography classes and any other art class that was being offered. Those were the classes I never skipped, the classes I always got straight A's in. I dropped out of the NYU graduate film program to work in the tv/film industry in NYC but always found myself doing side projects - installations, photography, and music videos. I wish I had stopped fighting myself sooner and just embraced who I was - an artist. Not until 2006 did I decide to finally get my MFA and allow myself to just be what I always was. And it felt great. Haven't stopped since.
Voices, Bronx
AHC: Could you explore and expand on some of the motivating ideas at work in both the images that you make and the process behind the making of them? How does the idea for you begin and what does its evolution look like during the stages of its development? Cat: I feel I'm constantly bombarded with ideas throughout the day. I have to carry a notepad with me or I will forget them. They come from things I see or experience. Lately, a lot of ideas stem from our current social issues. For example, while at a residency in Miami I noticed so many women - including young women - with plastic surgery. That's when the beauty standard projects like "Now I'm Beautiful," "Vanity Unfair," and "Beauty Box" were born. Most of the ideas are crystal clear in what the end product should look like, though there are some tweaks along the way. My biggest issue is finding the time and the money to actually bring these ideas to life. My notebook awaits me...
Now I'm Beautiful!
AHC: I wanted to explore your inspiration behind and what first motivated you to make your Voices Project, focusing in on domestic violence survivors. How did you find these women and how did you approach getting them to open up about their experiences, given the fragility of such a topic and how triggering memory can be? Was the effect of narrating for themselves what happened cathartic and liberating for them, from what you observed and from the feed back of these women? Cat: As a witness to abuse, I felt the need to create a project that focused on the survivors. I noticed this topic was not something discussed in the art world or my community or in the media at all. I reached out to a domestic violence organization in Miami and met with one of the advocates. She got to know me and my other works and trusted me to film the women at her shelter. They had me do a presentation and a talk first, and then the women signed up to be part of the project. To my surprise, they wanted to talk about what they went through and they wanted to help other women get out of their situations as well. It's not just cathartic. It's about making sure people know that this exists and realize we need to work together to stop it. Working with the Miami shelter opened the doors to all the other domestic violence organizations I worked with. With a Baang & Burne New Works Grant and Woman Made Gallery's space, I was able to have my first installation and panel discussion. Voices is still traveling the USA, adding more and more voices from each city while having a conversation with the community about this epidemic. VoicesTrailer from Cat Del Buono on Vimeo. AHC: Who are some of your artistic and cinematic influences? Is there anyone outside of the art and film world who has had a huge impact on you and your work or who just generally inspire you on some level, writers, comedians, musicians etc? Cat: Artists and others who I admire and have been influenced by include Bill Viola, Lorna Simpson, Pipilotti Rist, Guerrilla Girls, Banksy, Maya Deren, Tina Fey, Lucy Stone, and Gloria Steinem.
Vanity Unfair
AHC: What do you consider, personally, to be the most sacred and enduring aspects of art and film? How does it enrich our world and our cultural memory? How has it enriched or altered your own life? In your opinion, what does art, at its finest moments, bring into the world that would otherwise leave us more impoverished without it? Cat: Art can be used as another language. It's another way to communicate a feeling, idea, or message without shoving it in someone's face. I find humor is a great way to do this because it allows for people to be more receptive since the message is hidden behind the humor. (The laughing keeps them from shutting out the harsh criticism or message.) I don't believe works should be precious nor do they need to be aesthetically pleasing. I also feel as an artist today it is impossible to create works without some sort of message or social commentary. We are reminded daily of all that is still wrong with this country, so it's hard for that not to influence our thoughts and ideas. So currently, art can function as a tool for the activist agenda. It won't change the world, but it can open a few eyes to what needs to change.
How Not To Get Raped
AHC: What is the first work of art or cinema you encountered that took your breath away, that lit a fire in you? Cat: The films of Maya Deren. AHC: Do you have any words of advice or encouragement for young artists and other creatives who are experiencing self-doubt in their art, frustration or blocks? What are the types of things that have helped you to move past moments where you may have become stuck creatively? Cat: Don't edit yourself at first. Don't look at what everyone else is doing or how well they're doing. Don't compare yourself to them. Just focus on yourself and do the work. Create everything and anything - and don't restrict your medium - and afterwards you can look at everything you did and see what works or adjust as needed. The idea is if you make 100 things, there has to be at least one thing that is really good. And be sure to get to know other artists and curators and writers. Collaborate and help others when you can. These friendships will help you in the future.
Beauty Box
AHC: Do you have any upcoming exhibits or new projects you'd like to tell people about? Cat: I curated a permanent exhibit for Art Connects that opens October 12th. It's artworks and murals in a domestic violence shelter in the Bronx. I'm very proud to be part of this much needed project and to have such amazing artists donate their time and their works. I also plan on finally having "Voices" in Brooklyn next year. More info to come... All Film Stills and Photographs © Cat Del Buono (courtesy of the artist.) For more visit www.catdelbuono.com/ www.voicesproject.info/ refemme.tumblr.com Current Mural project in the Bronx needs your help raising funds for supplies: www.gofundme.com/domestic-violence-shelter-exhibit 8/23/2017 Poetry by Darrell HerbertCantus Firmus I understood that society had no room for me, and I had no room for society, I never have To go to the respectable dreamy like society, to the nocturnal side Was like changing sides in a war It's like the blind leading the blind So empty, so phantom empty No, a revolver has a drum that revolves In the throats of love, I was weak, no match for her But, the goodbye was sad, strangely unforgiven Straitjacket I had a lover I dated her back when she was counting change Se saw me a year ago and seemed taken aback by my confidence We hooked up and she judged my body And me, I was angry For a while actually Now I sit here smiling for the strength of my love and resiliency lives on and on I was angry for years. I was angry for many things, from many people, and many experiences My anger burned multiple holes inside of me I know now. I know how to fill these holes back up again Strength and resiliency lives on and on You can't be peace and love if you haven't tasted hate and anger You can't love yourself if you haven't sat with the looks of your many faces So my fellow humans, we are dual The pain we have shapes the beauty we create Insecurities hidden around false pride will get you nowhere Know that You're as insane as I am Dis I struggle with wanting to know why I notice, that it seems people I know treat each other better, and are closer than with me It really bothers me to be treated differently and distantly Of course, no one will ever admit it, or tell me why I've been told several times that I'm too nice, too good, too honest, and that is boring I was shocked by that These are some things that has made me increasingly disappointed, and untrusting of people, and why I withdraw from them I am indifferent, I guess that's what happens when cracks become too deep When wounds become harder to heal, when flames burn and insigne grate So for now I use these spells to keep sadness away Remember that moment becomes the stories you do not share There is kindness somewhere Our lives repair those in despair Bio: Darrell Herbert is a recipient of a national silver medal and gold key, presented by the Alliance for Young Artists & Writers in the Scholastic Art & Writing Awards of 2014. He is also a recipient of the 2016 Scythe Prize, and the 2017 Scythe Prize. He is a recipient of the NY Literary Magazine's "5 Star Writer Award." He was one of the winners in the second North Street Book Prize competition. His fiction and non-fiction has appeared in the Utica College Ampersand. His poetry has been featured in the likes of the "Best Teen Writing of 2014," by Hannah Jones, NotMyPresident Anthology, Writers- Black Artists Connected Blog, A Shared Format 4 Poets, Yellow Chair Review, Poetic Treasures Magazine, Section 8 Magazine, Blacktopia: Black Utopia Society Blog, Works in Progress newspaper, Woman of P.O.W.E.R. blog, Media Blast Press, Madness Muse Magazine, cocktailmolly, New York Rising Blog, thisis50.com, Supastars Magazine, downsouthhiphop.com, Beat Yard Magazine, All Black Entertainment Magazine, Southeast Hip-Hop Magazine, Poets & Writers Magazine, UC English Corner, Utica College Ampersand, Children's Screams are Whispers, Tuck Magazine, Wild Sound Festival Review, Dwartonline, Zoomoozophone Review, The Naga, Scarlet Leaf Review, Free Lit Magazine, The Basil O' Flaherty, Whispers in the Wind, Excavation, PPP Ezine, as well as in HangTime Magazine and The Lemonade Stand Magazine. Shlomo Franklin keeps his ear to the musical ground of the past, you can almost hear those trains that once carried Woody Guthrie and Ramblin' Jack rumbling up through each of his songs. A beatnik spirit and a poets heart, Franklin has a gruff, rich voice which reminds one of Steve Forbert, but his songs, like anyone's, are his own, and bear the unique perspective of a lively and extremely gifted songwriter whose greatest quality is his ability to take the old and make it brand new again. Music that doesn't compromise, shuns the slick and opts for the truth, the long dusty roads in and out of town, the heartbreaks, universal wonderings and wanderings, fishing at the edge of the stream, watching the sun come up on a hard night, Franklin is the very best of American songwriting living on in its new, bold, old-soul spirits. To listen is to dance is to wail is to get a little too close to the sun, is to know what damn fine songwriting is all about. Last year Franklin recorded a live session at Outlier Inn, and Anti-Heroin Chic is proud to premiere the video below. Shlomo will be playing Rockwood Music Hall at 9:00 on Aug. 24th. Visit www.shlomofranklin.com/ A few tracks not in the video can be found and purchased @ shlomofranklin.bandcamp.com/album/outliar-inn-sessions-live-unplugged-2016 8/22/2017 Blue Gardenia by Steve YoungBlue Gardenia George and Mary Lou's room on Court Street in downtown Barre was small, with a low ceiling, and unless the windows were wide open, there was no ventilation, which meant that you could levitate just by sitting down amongst us and breathing in the smoke. We were passing around a bottle of Tequila and George's corncob pipe the night George tried to teach me the chords to "Blue Gardenia." I was no musician, not like George, anyway. My guitar was a cheap Yamaha, with strings so far off the neck it was hard to do bar chords and my uncalloused fingers ached all the time from trying. George's guitar was one of the best that ever was made or ever will be: a 1948 Martin D-35 steel-string, with a light honey-colored front and a rosewood neck, strips of Mother-of-Pearl between the frets, strings that sang if you brushed your fingers against them, even in passing. George received the Martin on his sixteenth birthday, a goodbye present, you could say, from his father, a professor of ethnomusicology at Temple University in Philadelphia, the city where George grew up. Two months after George's birthday, his father put a bullet through his brain with a pistol no one knew he owned, and left a note about a mistress no one knew he had. George dropped out of high school soon after and hitchhiked aimlessly across the country. He showed up in our midst one summer later, a tall, skinny kid with long, finely-textured blonde hair and just the very beginnings of shagginess around his chin and sideburns. His body was wracked back then by a nervous vibration, an electric, adolescent hum which seemed to originate just below the surface of his skin. He had big hands but they were surprisingly supple. They played jazz and bluegrass and old timey string music, melodies with names like "Barbara Ann" and "Melinda" and "Black Mountain Rag." Simple tunes which grew more complex as he played them the third, the fourth, the fifth time. His father was a Woody Guthrie scholar and George grew up listening to the scratchy 78s Woody made in the 1930s and 40s, as well as those of Leadbelly, Blind Lemon Jefferson, Robert Johnson. George said they were solitary men with no roots and no futures, who didn't play to entertain but to keep from doing something far worse with their lives. I tried to learn some of the tunes written by these rambling men revered by George and his dead father, but I wasn't good at it. George got impatient trying to teach me and frequently took off on his own. I sat embarrassed but mesmerized by his hands, while his face kept its impatient, distracted look, like he was boring himself. He could play very fast. His fingers would fly until they started to whirl; until, it seemed to my pot-fogged brain, they were dancing. On the jazz and bluegrass tunes he used a medium flat pick, between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. But on the blues and mountain tunes he clenched the flat pick between his teeth and finger-picked with the thumb and first three fingers of his right hand, pulling and releasing the strings over the soundboard in concentric circles of small movements. It seemed to me that those fingers, so light and facile, pulling and tapping and tugging with such natural grace, could be the hands of a surgeon, a diamond cutter, a safecracker, an anything. And the opaque, dreary world that was my own life that summer seemed in those moments something more and something less. Mary Lou Demers, George's girlfriend, was born and raised deep in the boons, all the way out in a tiny corner of the world called East Hardwick, Vermont. She was exceptionally pretty -- short and slightly chubby with a small, moon-shaped face, and a wistful smile both sweet and sad, the first brown-haired girl with blue eyes I'd ever met. She also had a beautiful, husky speaking voice, almost like an old woman's, the kind of voice that in a teenage girl sounds both tough and vulnerable. Mary Lou loved George with an intensity I envied and admired but like me, she had no ear for music. So while George tried to show me how to form the ninth and thirteenth chords to play "Blue Gardenia," she fell asleep on the couch behind him and gently snored. As he tried to get me to contort my fingers into the right positions, he told me that the most famous recording of the song was by Nat King Cole. But his father told him that the best version was by Dinah Washington. Cole’s voice was always smothered by all those sappy strings, he said. So was Dinah’s – except for the one and only session in her career when she got to sing with some of the best jazz studio musicians in the business: trumpeter Clarke Terry, pianist Wynton Kelly, trombonist Jimmie Cleveland, guitarist Barry Galbraith. “They always talk about Billie Holiday, what a fucked-up tragic figure she was,” George said. “But Billie always got to sing with the best musicians. She was treated like a queen. She never had to sing commercial crap like Dinah or Ella or Sarah Vaughan did for most of their careers. And Dinah died at a younger age than Billie did – people don’t know that -- not from heroin, but from diet pills, booze and Bennies. Billie always had that white gardenia in her hair, but Dinah sang about the blue one.” Mary Lou had fallen into a deep slumber and the only light was from a candle on the other side of the room and the ember from the cigarette in George’s mouth. Clearly the night was drawing to a close. He strummed a few chords without saying anything more. Then he said in a quiet voice, “I think my father would have been proud of me. Proud that I’m a musician, that I chose that road.” “Sure he would,” I said. It was the first time he’d ever talked to me about his father. “Not every father would be but I think he would’ve been.” George disappeared forever a few days later, toting only his Martin is what I heard. The following summer Mary Lou received a postcard from George from somewhere along the coast of South Carolina. There was a picture of the statue of Iwo Jima on the front. "I'm in boot camp," he wrote on the back. "It's not as bad as you think." A few weeks before, I'd started at the granite quarry. I hated the quarry at first, hated everything about it: the noise, the dust, the danger, the beer-bellied men, one or two with Mohawks beneath their yellow plastic hard hats. They laughed at my pimples and my long black hair, called me "Shirley" and "Agnes," and mimed sodomizing me when I leaned over. Getting my union card was like receiving a death sentence. But after a while, I cut my hair. I married the first girl in a bar who showed an interest in me. I was a virgin on our wedding night. Fortunately, she wasn't. We have three kids now. It's a funny thing about "Blue Gardenia." There are two or three chord fingerings that I've never forgotten. Even today, whenever I pick up my old Yamaha, which is rare, they're the first and usually the only things I play. Strangely, my fingers go automatically to their proper places on the strings to form those dense, complicated chords. I feel a sense of accomplishment in playing them. And although I'm not a jazz fan, and know nothing of the music, these chords give me a feeling of sophistication, of superior knowledge, that nothing else in my life does. But I never play for long. My fingertips get sore and my mind wanders and I think of George, remember his restlessness and how nothing ever satisfied him. Not the beauty he found around him nor the beauty he created himself. ![]() Bio: Steve Young has an MFA in Fiction from Vermont College of Fine Arts. He has published thirteen previous short stories including in recent issues of the Saturday Evening Post, The Wild Word, and Woven Tale Press. Two of his stories have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and BASS. Young grew up in Vermont and now lives and writes in Albuquerque, New Mexico. He has been a journalist for most of his career.
Photography by James Looker
The best truths are the one's closest to home, natural as the air we breathe, the story of our lives are local configurations of the human heart. On Something New, Ottawa Ontario singer-songwriter Ana Miura paints an intimate musical portrait of family, love, small towns and all those ties that bind us to ourselves. "On a literal level," Ana writes, "the record is about me finding someone new in my romantic life, but in a bigger way it’s about the changes and the dynamics of life and how we are always growing. As we pass through life we express each phase in our own unique way – Something New is my fingerprint from the last few years." Songs that resound with deep spirit and heart, markers of then and now and of all that is still to come, the life and beauty pouring through Something New is the work of an incredibly gifted songwriter whose narratives enrich our own lives, as the truths closest to home are also the ones that carry us the longest distance, both anchor and drift. Miura gives us something to lean on, learn from and, pointing us true north, in the unique way of songs that know 'where they are going and where they have been'. AHC: What has this journey in music, so far, been like for you, the highs and the lows, and what life lessons do you feel you've picked up along the way? Ana: Music has been a gift in my life. Singing and playing instruments has been a companion in joy and a comfort in sorrow, and always an outlet for my personal expression. Through touring I learned not only many of the skills I use today working with festivals, artists, and various organizations, but created lasting connections and friendships. I’ve learned how to plan, organize, problem solve, administrate, delegate, and deal with uncomfortable and unfair situations. Most of all I’ve learned in life that my relationships – business, personal, and spiritual – are what truly carry me through life. Music has taught me that. AHC: What first drew you to music and what was your early musical environment like growing up? Were there pivotal songs for you then that just floored you the moment you heard them? Ana: I always loved music. My mother played guitar and piano and had an incredible singing voice – certainly the voice of the family! My father also loved music and it was encouraged and enjoyed by all in the house. When I was 8 or 9 years old I started taking piano lessons (conservatory), and joined choirs. By the time I was 15 I had taught myself how to play guitar and began to write my own songs. All-in-all, a very positive and supportive environment for music. Throughout my life there have been many important songs I have heard that have inspired me, but early artists that strongly influenced me were Ani DiFranco, Sarah Harmer, Norah Jones, and more. AHC: Do you remember the first song that you ever wrote or played? Or that first moment when you picked up a pen and realized that you could create whole worlds just by putting it to paper? Ana: I recall being 16 years old, sitting in my bedroom with my guitar and my diary/poetry book and realizing that I could probably just put those two things together; and then wrote my first song. It seemed like a natural accident that it all came together and although I didn’t write another song for a year, it did nudge me in the right direction. AHC: Which musicians have you learned the most from? Or writers, artists, filmmakers, teachers/mentors etc? What are the works you could not possibly live without? Ana: Early on in my musical career I learned from all of my peers in the local music scene. Whether jamming with them and finding new chords, getting practical advice about touring and gigging (Marc Charron, Bryan Ruckstuhl), or inspiration (Amanda Rheaume), their influence was essential to my learning the first steps in the long journey of the art of and the business of music. Pre-career, it would certainly be my music teachers: Phoebe Toft (piano), those who taught me in choir (Valerie Long), and various high school band concert directors (Neil Bateman). And, of course my parents who always encouraged my to express myself musically. As for works I could not live without… that’s such a tough question, as those seems to grow and change as I grow and change. I always have trouble naming my ‘favourite’ artist or song, but would rather tell you what has been catching my ear as of late. AHC: What do you think makes for a good song, as you're writing and composing, is there a sudden moment when you know you've found the right mix, that perfect angle of light, so to speak? Ana: In my mind, the best songs resonate deeply inside you. They are able to access an emotion from you – joy, sorrow, love, hate, loneliness, happiness, etc. I try to capture those feelings through the lyric, the melody and the tone so we can all have at least a few minutes to connect in such a real way. AHC: Do you consider music to be a type of healing art, a slightly imperfect vehicle through which to translate a feeling, states of rupture/rapture, hope lost and regained? Does the writing and creating of the song save you in the kinds of ways that it saves us, the listener, even if only momentarily? Ana: Songwriting has definitely been a healer for me, but it has also taken other forms too, as you say, ‘translate a feeling’. I hope to be true with my expression and if someone relates and it helps them through a tough time, or they are taken away for a moment into a different experience, then I feel it’s a job well done. The creation of a song has always helped me to look at the moments in my life and understand them better; a catharsis. AHC: What are your fondest musical memories? In your house? In your neighborhood or town? On-tour, on-the-road? Ana: My fondest musical memories span all the environments that they have been housed in – playing the piano in my parent’s house, sharing songs around a campfire, sharing the stage with a musical hero, ridiculous moments on tour with too little sleep and too many miles to drive, and of course, the relationships: the people I’ve met, the friends I’ve made, and the music we have all shared. AHC: When you set out to write a song, how much does 'where the world is' in its current moment, culturally, politically, otherwise, influence the kinds of stories you set out to tell? Ana: Perhaps it’s my psychology degree always at work, but relationships have really always been the centre of what I write about. It started out as romantic relationships but lately I am delving more into talking about familial relationships and the stories of my family. AHC: Do you have any words of advice or encouragement for other musicians and singer-songwriters out there who are just starting out and trying to find their voice and their way in this world? What are the kinds of things that you tell yourself when you begin to have doubts or are struggling with the creative process? Or what kinds of things have others told you that have helped push you past moments of self doubt/creative blocks? Ana: Continue to create. Continue to collaborate. Take care of and support one another in your musical community. Write and re-write and re-write. When you hit a road block (or a whole traffic jam), try taking things into yourself (concerts, plays, theatre, visual art, nature, travel), and then output. Write terrible songs that you think suck – it helps you get to the good ones! AHC: Something New was released this July, could you explore for us some of your ideas behind this record, what its message/appeal to the world is, your hopes for where this lands? Ana: Something New on a literal level is about me finding someone new in my romantic life, but in a bigger way it’s about the changes and the dynamics of life and how we are always growing. As we pass through life we express each phase in our own unique way – Something New is my fingerprint from the last few years. I hope it reaches the ears of many, and resonates. For more visit www.anamiura.com/ Something New available now via anamiura.bandcamp.com/ 8/21/2017 Untitled by Kara L.C. Jones Toy Study: performative mission
it is expensive to grieve. it is expensive to be a sober addict. 20 years sober and still it costs me. in this white supremacist, colonial, capitalist patriarchy i'm supposed to keep going. get closure. be healed. move on. be healthy. be strong. as a self-employed heARTist, there was no bereavement leave when my sons died at birth. but in the corporate greed world, it would have only been three days leave anyway. what kind of joke is that? "you've got three days to get over it and be productive again back here at the work place." that's what we tell bereaved people when we allow them to grieve. but as a self-employed sober addict, not even that was given. in the years since, beloved unkies and mimis have died. we've stood grave side as a goddaughter was buried. we were homeless in our car on the infamous 9/11. but this is now. stay in this moment. i can manage the present moment. but still. it is expensive to grieve. it is expensive to be a sober addict. it still costs me each and every day as i make present moment choices to ask for help instead of use. to attempt expression instead of use. to breathe instead of use. i remember the day it changed. i woke up in the redwood forest. dragging. not clear on how i got there. fog receding up the massive thighs of the redwood tree goddesses. and i heard the voice clear as the ping in my last hearing test. it gently said, "you can keep doing this if you want, but you will be dead by the end of this year. your choice." it cost me relationships. it cost me my masters degrees (yes, i was working on two of them at the time). it cost me the hurt i caused so many who hadn't realized i was an addict, i told lies, i was not able to function even though it looked like i could. grief, love, choosing to live, choosing sobriety...it all costs. sometimes i'm willing to pay. sometimes i'm not. sometimes i feel i am on mission. sometimes it feels like a performative mission. AND i know that it costs me a great deal to be this broken (open) while trying to survive in a white supremacist capitalist world that says i don't do it right, i don't deserve healthcare, housing, food security because i don't work hard enough. the hard work i do each day choosing to stay...there is no pay scale for it...that will not show up on any GDP scale or other indicator. it is expensive to be invisible. and i pay it every single day. soberly. for 20 years any way. Bio: Kara LC Jones is the Creative Grief Educator and heARTist behind GriefAndCreativity.com. She co-founded both the Creative Grief Studio and KotaPress. She’s a Carnegie Mellon graduate who interned 3 years at Mister Rogers Neighborhood back in the day. 8/20/2017 Poetry by Rachel ReillyThe Vintage Skirt I Wore Before I Had a Body Blue time fades, her cotton hangs like a flame-- a candle stuffed away in your mother’s closet, ready to ignite. She is the best arsonist—the one who burns that layer between skin and bone. But stays back, herself never changing but for the slightest fade. Her arms circumference twenty-two inches and button so tightly you can’t breathe. She’s done this before; she’s been around since 1955. Her gaunt ghost victims try to hide in every pleat that gathers, clutching to your rib cage, passing down their pain. She is stern, like the woman who first wore her, tightly knit, with no give-- no sympathy. After Untitled III the hard heart- work of moving on that silence at the back of your stomach like almost-hunger the way loss feels between your toes after a stubborn walk when sandals come off you never meant to divert this far out from comfort it's the part songs omit : unsubversive in intimacy unglamorous almost ugly these blisters that callous too slowly American Sonnet for the Eighth Grade Girl Who Rolls Her Eyes at Me Each Time I See Her A decade reincarnated a vision of aversion almost like myself If viewed from the mental hole where innocence decayed is stored: A declawed rescue cat, maladjusted to her new master, soft Like a stuffed cat, given No Choice but to live in the bored Blank space of days. Maybe I project my memories: school, Sulking, head-aching words, and earlier, slipping through doors Before Mother steals her choice to smear some neo-crocodile shit (Historically speaking) like sunglasses to hide her true eyes’ lives From Instagram--more glam than smeared, teared Myspace. If Scout’s rebel phrase (pass the damn ham) was all I learned, Fourteen and too insecure to hear, it's hard to hope she'll listen And let words ignite her soul. Likely, Apathy will grow itself out, Eventually, like hair fried from box dye and Choice will start To situate inside rebellion and free her from slow stagnance. ![]() Bio: Rachel Reilly is a Chicago born writer and visual artist who currently resides in Albuquerque, NM with her 4 lb dog, Baby Sappho. She blogs at https://atmosphereofglass.wordpress.com/ and Tweets at @rach_anastasia. |
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